


if i put my fingers in your mouth

by thisishardcore



Category: Columbine - Fandom, Historical Criminals RPF, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dom/sub, Feminization, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Rape Roleplay, more like dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: "Something's wrong with you, y'know. Liking men in skirts.""Says the man in a skirt.""Because you put me in it!" Eric shouts, turning his head and, surely, jingling the bell around his neck. It tears away any threat he could possibly hold in his tone. He huffs and turns his back again.
Relationships: Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29
Collections: let's break the internet





	if i put my fingers in your mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dahhhmer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dahhhmer/gifts).



> fic for an established au i have with lo (1997vodka <3) where dylan and eric live together, meet anonymously online, and only later figure out they've been sexting each other the whole time. i imagine this as one of the first times they're physically together. i should probably write out and post the beginning plot of that au before something like this but.... eric in a skirt. eric in a skirt.
> 
> dylan explicitly says the word rape, but in the au its something previously discussed and would more fall under cnc, but that isn't clear from just this fic so... fair warning i guess.
> 
> eric would hate me and hate this, but oh well. leave kudos n comments n all that <3

"I don't know about this, V," Eric whines, tugging at his collar. The bell attached rang with every pull, scratched at the base of Eric's neck. The soft pink of the faux-leather bringing out some amount of flush under his skin, the bell glinting in the low bedroom light. In the mirror, if Eric unfocuses his eyes enough, he looks like an entirely different person from the neck down. Someone with some amount of confidence in their skin, that can wear a collar like this, fishnet tops, pleated skirts, and still feel at home. 

Dylan was across the room, sitting on the foot of the bed, looking at Eric without making any attempt to hide the hunger in his eyes. They dip low, down across Eric's just-shaved legs, up across the backs of his thighs where the skirt falls, his hips and waist contained in the lines of fishnets, back up to his eyes. Eric meets them, trying to hold that uncharacteristic confidence in his expression, failing completely as a blush, sweet and pink, rises to his face. 

"I like it." 

Eric turns back to the mirror, the implication extremely clear. Doesn't matter what Eric thinks about it. Dylan likes it, so he'll wear it. 

He breathes in, feels the strap of the collar around his neck, and it goes straight to his dick. Giving in completely doesn't come naturally yet, though. As much as Eric's mind blurs and melts, his voice never loses its sharp edge, his instinct is always on finding a comeback.

"Something's wrong with you, y'know. Liking men in skirts."

"Says the man in a skirt."

"Because you put me in it!" Eric shouts, turning his head and, surely, jingling the bell around his neck. It tears away any threat he could possibly hold in his tone. He huffs and turns his back again. 

It doesn't look bad, the outfit. The sleeves, as they are, are long and curve down his thin arms, over his hands. The skirt sits perfectly on his waist, as pink as his collar, an inch or so shorter than what would be comfortable, but something about feeling of the hem dragging across his legs makes him not mind so much. 

He runs his hands over the front of his hips, across his stomach, tips catching on each fishnet string. He feels a bit, well, like a whore. With Dylan-- Vodka behind him, looking at him acclimating to his reflection. Vodka behind him, brain reeling in countless thoughts no doubt. 

It was easier over text, Eric thinks. It was easier when Vodka was some stranger across million miles of instant messaging, couldn't touch him, didn't know him, didn't spend half his life with him. It was easier when Dylan was his best friend he moved in with after high school, easier when all his feelings could be tied together and shoved down under his stomach-- Now that Dylan knew Eric, really knew him, and Vodka knew Reb, he's close to bursting his skin at all times. His chest feels like a drumline every time Dylan takes that tone, low and sly, every time he so much as brushes past him. 

And maybe it'd be easier if he could _jerk off_. But of course Vodka had to take that too, order him around, had to find all the ways inside Eric's head and stamp them with his image. Eric's finding it more and more difficult to pretend like he doesn't love all of it, like there isn't a thrill that rages through him at the thought of Dylan being so _eager_ to control him. 

He chews his bottom lip. "You really like it?" If he sounds pathetic, Vodka doesn't register it. 

He sounds breathless. "Yeah. Yeah, I do, baby. You look--" he decides to say it, "Pretty."

Eric could stab himself, he really could. He could bleed out all over his bedroom floor. He could die without an ounce of nostalgia in him. The present feels so clear, and wonderful (and nervewracking, and terrifying). 

Dylan holds his hands out. "C'mere."

Eric crosses the room with slightly shaky strides, climbs into Vodka's lap. Vodka is already hard through his jeans, and Eric can feel the shape of his cock against the curve of his ass. He moves just slightly and they lock together, the rise of Vodka's jeans against the thin silk of Eric's panties (this item alone took a half-hour of convincing, but _god_ was it worth it to hear the gasp Dylan makes). 

Eric grins, and all at once, he's in the perfect headspace. Nervous still, sure, but fuzzy, syrupy-sweet. Positively evil. 

He rocks his hips forward, then back, Innocently enough to make a claim of getting comfortable while Vodka's nails sink into the small of his back. He whines Eric's name, and Eric cocks his head. 

"You alright? 'M not hurting you, am I?"

Dylan's fumbling with his zipper before Eric can take another breath. "Lift your hips, baby, please." And Eric knows that means he wants to take the space inside him, claim it for his own, and the thought drives a sharp warning through Eric's entire body. 

He shakes his head, clinging to Vodka's shoulders, keeping still. Vodka takes both his hips, tries to push him up-- Eric is seized all at once by the tightest panic exploding through the whole of him. He shakes his head again, buries his face in Dylan's neck.

It's one word, and it takes so much to get out. "Yellow. Please. Dylan." 

Dylan's hands are off him just like that. "You okay?"

Eric nods, his arms wrapping around Dylan. His dick's still out, Eric notices, and he's still hard, even paused. Eric licks his own hand, slips it down between the both of them, around the base of Dylan's cock. Dylan inhales, sharp and stunned, and tilts his head back. He rests a hand on Eric's smooth thigh, up under his skirt. 

"Just don't want me fucking you yet, mm? All that talk about fighting back and you safeword out of it."

It's embarrassing how that makes Eric respond-- whining, panting against Vodka almost instantly, finding a rhythm for his hand, a way of stroking his thumb across the head, a way to grind himself down against Vodka's thigh,

He turns his head by a fraction, whispers right in Eric's ear, "Don't you want me raping you, Reb? Pulling your panties down, forcing myself inside you?"

Eric shakes his head, but he's so close, his head is filling with static, his pace and movements becoming more and more erratic, shaky. 

Vodka laughs, mockingly, "Yes, you do, baby girl. Wanna be my personal rapetoy."

Eric comes on the spot, untouched, squeaking into Vodka's shoulder while he mumbles out a few more half-formed thoughts, then pulls Eric as close as physically possible, comes over his fingers, dripping onto his skirt. 

It's gross and uncomfortably warm. Eric can't peel himself away. They sit quietly for a moment, breathing at equal pace but opposite stride, one breath after another. 

Then Dylan's back in his ear. "Was that too much?"

Eric shakes his head, tries to speak, then shakes his head again. 

Dylan chuckles, rubs Eric's back for a moment, letting him come down. "Won't tease you about coming before I could even get my hands on you--"

"Shut up, asshole."

He kisses Eric's cheek, "Let me get you some water. We can figure out dinner in a bit, mm?"

Eric nods, his breathing finally slowing, his grip finally loosening. Dylan turns, lays Eric down on his bed. He stands over him and just _stares_ for a few moments, something Eric can't parse sitting in his eyes. He pulls the skirt off, then the underwear, leaving them in a pile by the laundry basket. Eric takes off the fishnet top, Dylan puts it in the same pile. Neither of them touch the collar.

He smiles down at Eric, and Eric can hear the words before Dylan says them, covers his face before Dylan's able to say them. In a small, quiet tone, Dylan's voice still rings through the room, "I love you."

Eric, easily, cries. 


End file.
